Nyctophobia
by OldFanfictionBestLeftUnread
Summary: The infamous trial of the Nickel Samurai has ended, but nothing can undo the past.
1. Prologue

"You can't run away from your crime any more!"

There was an indescribable silence. Clichés such as a silence so thick it could be cut with a knife simply didn't do it justice. This was a silence so thick it couldn't possibly be cut through with a knife, not unless the blade was edged with diamonds and someone had taken a sledgehammer to the silence first. It was a silence so physical it even had its own colour, or at least its own shade. Various shades of grey, shivering across it, streaked with splashes of red.

The red intensified. She couldn't tell if it was her own vision or whether something had possessed the court, had taken it in its metaphysical grip and was shaking it until the world blurred. She adjusted her glasses, blinked, tried anything to regain her focus, but all she could see was the grey and the black and the red and, in the middle of it all, a pair of white, staring eyes.

Eyes she knew well. Eyes which had followed her, had narrowed in disgust, had tried softening in an illusion of fondness, had been closed when she slid that bloody, bloody button into the silk folds of that costume his eyes had been hidden behind the mask of so many times.

They closed. She thought, for a moment, a moment both ecstatic and horrible, that it was over then. A trail of events she wasn't entirely sure of had finally slammed into a dead end. She would have risen to her feet and run away if her legs weren't shaking harder than a house of cards in an earthquake. Not, of course, that she could feel them trembling. As far as she was concerned they had dissolved forever as soon as she stumbled away from the witness stand. Her limbs hadn't wanted anything to do with her, not when there was a possibility that hanging around would mean that they would spend the rest of their time confined to a cell and the exercise yard.

No. She couldn't move. She couldn't even raise her hands. She could barely breathe. This was the end, she knew.

She couldn't even get that right.

Just as she prepared to fold over into a broken heap, her first eternity of thought, which lasted only a second, snapped into the next. This terrifying new chapter was heralded by a shriek which rang on for the next few years inside her head, and punctuated by more red slicing into the scene. Hands which had thanked her, mocked her, even comforted her for a short while, raked themselves across his face. The red lines multiplied, bit into his skin, again and again. Every time she thought he would pause to catch his breath or wipe away the trickles of blood already seeping towards his neck the scream only intensified, the hands only hurtled themselves into a fresh frenzy. His mouth twisted into a grotesque rictus of every negative emotion one would care to name, as those hands still clawed one word out of his throat.

"Guilty!"

The blood was beginning to smear now. It stained his face, his hands, his arms. The scene was nothing but red and those eyes.

Someone led him away. She didn't see who, or how he reacted. That was if he was even able to react any more, to do anything other than gouge raw strips of flesh from his own body while repeating that one word. All she was aware of was that the insidious colour bled away. In its place was a pure, unblemished white.

It was the shade of a new beginning. She tried to tell them that, when they addressed her again, but she knew she would never translate the past few years and their effect into words. She never was a story teller.

"I felt like I had finally been saved," she said. She smiled, honestly, and the relief painted colour back into the world, but no one asked her from what she had been saved. She couldn't have told them herself.

The only thing she could have said, with any degree of certainty, was that it all began with a Shoe.


	2. Chapter 1

Adrian Andrews opened her mouth and was met with a forkful of cat.

That was it. That was the final straw.

She lowered her hand again and, trembling, nudged the creature off it. The feline seemed more excited than enraged over its experience and padded around her plate a few times, licking the remains of whatever cardboard had been impersonating real food, before it slunk away to torment someone else. Adrian didn't see who. She was too busy dropping her head into her hands with a groan that blended imperceptibly into the sound of a motorbike revving up outside.

Obnoxious security measures, failed interviews and now a cat in her lunch. The last time she checked, Global Studios had been exactly what it said on the tin, a complex of television studios. At no point had she seen a mention that it was also an animal shelter. She was sure she would have noticed. She had researched the company in more detail than she ever imagined needing, so desperate was she to win the job she would never get to have.

Everything about the day had gone wrong. She'd even burned her toast. Burnt toast! What better message could there have been that she should have stayed in bed? Only fools burned their toast.

There was clearly no hope for her. Wherever she went she would be followed by failure, and felines, and burnt toast. People would look at her and see Adrian Andrews, the woman haunted by the phantom of a blackened piece of bread, the woman who could never get anything right.

"Shoe!"

And now people were shouting about shoes at her.

Maybe the world had always been like this and today was the first time she'd woken up to it. Maybe burnt toast caused hallucinations. Maybe she was still asleep. She hoped so. That meant that, any moment now, she would wake up and start the day again properly. She'd have cereal for breakfast and buy a dog or something, and when she reached the interview she would-

"Excuse me."

She raised her head. All she saw was a dark blur against the beige of the staff area walls. It could have been a piece of scenery or a particularly dirty mark on the wall. If it was, Adrian decided, she was going home. Her sanity could only take so much stress. She picked up her glasses from the table and almost managed to poke herself in the eye with them.

The person, scenery or dirty patch of wall waited patiently to waver into focus. Much to Adrian's relief, she was being addressed, not by a smear on the wall, but by a perfectly ordinary woman, cleanly and neatly dressed. In fact, she was so cleanly and so neatly dressed that she could have been a lawyer in a prestigious firm with a name like Wilkins, Wilkins and Upton Solicitors. She didn't even seem to see the memories of burnt toast and cats and that terrible interview orbiting Adrian's head. That was how professional she was.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," she said, "but I think you may have been about to eat my cat."

"Your, um, what?" said Adrian. This, on reflection, was the most idiotic thing she could have said. She knew what a cat was. She knew that she had indeed been on the verge of eating it. What she should have asked was who this woman was and why she had a cat at a television studio.

Since Adrian was resigned to her day struggling against all her attempts to correct it, she didn't bother adding these more important questions to her initial stammer. They would only have contorted themselves into further evidence of her utter lack of anything which could pass for a brain even in a good light.

The woman clearly intended to take care of the problem. Her lips, modestly sculpted by crimson lipstick, were lifted into a small but heartfelt smile. She dragged one of the plastic chairs back across the cement and lowered herself into it, smoothing the folds out of her skirt, and took a sip from a bottle of mineral water most definitely not from the cheap vending machine in the corner.

"Never mind, I expect he'll find his own way home. He found his own way here. That cat gets everywhere."

Adrian wasn't sure what to say to this. She decided to play it safe.

"Oh."

The woman drank a little more water.

"Mm."

Adrian added, recklessly,

"Does he really?"

"He must have gotten into my car when I went back to fetch my bag. You can always rely on him to turn up exactly where you don't want him to. Imagine if he'd gotten into the interview!"

Smile. Cue laughter. Adrian was unable to co operate with the demands of the situation. She had just realised that this must be the person who had, inadvertently, done to her dreams what an industrial size flamethrower will do to a snowflake.

No wonder they hadn't been at all interested. Adrian must have been right behind this woman in the job interviews. When Adrian stepped through the door, clouded by the wake of this woman's cool efficiency and sophistication, she must have looked like a refugee from the dark ages. When she sat down to discover that her tongue had better things to do than, say, allow her to speak, it must have pushed them over the edge. Why would they want a stuttering, empty-headed twit like her when they could have... whoever this was?

"Is something bothering you?" asked whoever. Her forehead creased in concern, which must have taken some effort, given how tightly her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Adrian sighed and readjusted her glasses, an old standby when she was at a loss for words. All she eventually managed was,

"No. No, not at all, it's just been a long day and, er, and I wanted to get home."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I won't hold you up."

"I didn't mean it like that! I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know, it's just, I'm sorry..."

"No, look, I'm sorry. Even if you needed to be sorry, you only have to say it once and I'll get the message."

Another smile. Another cue for laughter. This time Adrian managed it, barely. She wished she hadn't left her notebook at home. She needed something to do with her hands and she could only prod her glasses so many times before it stopped looking necessary and started revealing its true colours as a nervous tic.

"My cat interrupted your lunch and then, rather than let you finish it in peace, I sat down without any invitation and started rambling at you. I'm the one who needs to offer my apologies. Are they accepted?"

"Um, yes."

"Good. Now, let's introduce ourselves. I am Celeste Inpax. Before you ask, yes, it does mean 'in peace', and yes, it does sound a bit morbid."

Adrian, who didn't know Latin and hadn't been about to ask, laughed anyway. Celeste smiled encouragingly at her, which prompted a tentative response.

"I'm Adrian Andrews."

"Pleased to meet you. Now, I hate to waste time, so let's get straight to business. You wouldn't happen to be one of the other people from the interviews for a manager today, would you?"

Another mistake. Clearly, this woman had seen the horrors haunting Adrian, but had been too polite to mention it. Another point in her favour and another point which made Adrian feel as if the one interview she could sail through was for the town idiot. She toyed with the plastic fork which had, not that long ago, held a cat. That would be so much easier to deal with than this conversation.

"Yes," she said. "So... you're the one who got the job? Congratulations."

"It's not that impressive."

The fork clattered onto the table. Adrian's eyes fixed for a moment on a broken grate, set into the opposite wall. She couldn't formulate any sort of coherent reply. Not that impressive? She had worked for Global Studios ever since the infamous murder case had propelled its fame through the roof, through the atmosphere and into the orbit of alien planets. It rarely offered the opportunity for a new manager to temper its reputation. How could securing that coveted vocation not be impressive?

Celeste misunderstood the silence. She pressed slender fingers to her lips for a moment.

"Oh, dear. It seems I have to apologise again. I didn't mean that you weren't good enough even for an unimpressive job or anything like that."

"No, no, really, it's fine," assured Adrian. She continued to stare at the grate. It was rusty. Evidently it had been broken for some time. Fascinating. So much more worthy of her attention than a conversation. At least it didn't provoke some nameless combination of guilt and humiliation in her.

"I just meant that it's not all it was made out to be. It sounds brilliant, but really it's just managing the actor for this pilot show. You know, the newest spin off from the Steel Samurai? It probably won't go anywhere."

Entranced as she was by the rusty grate, Adrian still recognised someone laying the platitudes on a bit thick when she heard them. For the first time that day she got something exactly right when she delivered her best skeptical look over the frames of her glasses.

It saved her saying anything. Celeste got the picture and turned it into another opportunity to showcase her laughter. Even that was smart, efficient. It didn't last too long and was neither hearty nor silvery. It avoided hackneyed description entirely and stuck to being merely short and pleasant.

"All right. I admit that I'm going to do everything in my power to make it a success. You really wouldn't like the actor, though. You seem like an intelligent person to me. He's nice, but I'd only describe him as intelligent if every other adjective was removed from the dictionary. Did you hear that motorbike leaving just now? That was him."

Adrian shrugged.

"I don't see why owning a motorbike makes him stupid."

"It doesn't. What does make him stupid is that he didn't seem capable of thinking about anything else."

"You've obviously got a lot of faith in your first client."

Surprise registered for a moment in Celeste's eyes. It quickly flashed into delight as she sat back in her chair, surveying Adrian.

"You got a bit of a sarcastic tongue hidden away there, haven't you?" she said. The smile was still intact, if not firmer than ever. "I like it."

"Um, thanks."

The expensive bottle of water was slipped back into an equally expensive handbag. Without any more to say, Adrian was left to pick up the fork again and twiddle it aimlessly. The electric light which illuminated the door to a dressing room behind her was flickering, an effect which was beginning to give her a headache. Now, however, it didn't bother her as much as it might have done ten minutes earlier.

It cast a grubby yellow light over the area which didn't do Celeste's current thoughtful demeanour the dramatic justice it deserved. She concluded her musing fairly swiftly.

"It was a fair comment, too. I suppose I am being a bit harsh on him. After all, it was only a brief introduction, though he did seem to be labouring under the impression that my name was 'Manager Dude'."

"Maybe it's an affectionate nickname."

"I tell you what, I'm meeting him properly tomorrow. I'll ask him what he thinks of cats. If he's a cat person who doesn't mind Shoe appearing out of nowhere, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. How about that?"

The chair squeaked as she pushed it back and stood up, masking out Adrian's vague mumble of an answer. The headache had suddenly increased from a faint annoyance to a physical presence which gripped her conscious more tightly and insidiously than an angry scorpion.

The conversation had been a welcome distraction, but now all she had in the future was a lukewarm bath, a mug of weak tea and an endless lifetime working as a general odd job person on the Global Studios lot. She was doomed to live her own lonely life watching Celeste Inpax charging herself and her prospective star forwards into a glamorous celebrity lifestyle, without even the decency to be loathsome and shallow in the process.

A square of card, a business card with an address and telephone number, flicked itself into Adrian's view. She took it automatically, something to keep her hands occupied in their nervous fidgeting, and simultaneously raised her eyes. A smile which was already familiar met her.

"As for you, I'm going to be your personal mentor," announced Celeste. There was no room for questions or argument. She continued, before Adrian could find the time to look startled, "You remind me of me."

"What? I'm not at all like you."

"Why not?"

"Well, er, I'm just not. I've hardly said a word, for one thing, and I'm disorganised and clumsy and-"

"How do you know I'm not disorganised and clumsy? You're talking to the woman who managed to accidentally bring her cat to work. I've just gotten used to hiding what I'm really like, and that's what I'll teach you to do."

"But-"

"Adrian. Listen. You don't have to meet me again if you don't want to. I, on the other hand, would like to. As I said, I hate to waste time. I'd like to have a friend like you and I want to see you do well, since I've just taken a job away from you. I'll see you again soon, I hope. That's all I have to add to this conversation."

Her high heels had tapped out of sight before Adrian rediscovered her tongue. She shouted anyway,

"I'll call you."

There wasn't much left to do. She could hang around here, in the staff area of Global Studios, or head home to paracetamol and bed. There wasn't a decision to be made.

On the way to her car she saw Celeste pulling out. The woman gave a cheery waggle of her fingers on the steering wheel. Adrian waved hesitantly back, noticing the cat on the back seat dragging out the contents of the expensive handbag, including the handbag's lining.

A few seconds later Adrian was alone in the car park.


	3. Chapter 2

The motorbike shrieked, stuttered and finally grunted to a halt in a pathetic dribble of gravel. This, Matt knew, was entirely the wrong image. He wanted it to roar upon its arrival with the strength of a lion, raking up the dirt in a solid wall with its talons, or wheels as the case might be, and generally doing whatever it took to achieve the fanfare the king of the city deserved.

All right. He had some way to go before he could legitimately crown himself. At the moment he was more like a kitten flexing its stubs of claw. The few adverts and shorts he had broken his teeth on were balls of wool bounced teasingly in his direction, but now his owners were beginning to see his potential. This new series would be his first kill, so to speak, his first taste of fame's blood before he mauled it, dominated it, made it his. It was, after all, made for him. He fitted into this world so perfectly that it must have been crafted specifically for Matt Engarde. There was simply no other explanation.

Motorbike secured, he paused at the window of the restaurant to straighten his hair. It was such an ingrained habit that his thoughts were easily able to wander as he did it. If this Nickel Samurai series took off – which it would, if he was in it – the first thing he would do was buy himself a new ride. His current bike had served him faithfully, but, like an old pair of shoes, faithful was all very good until the object in question started to leak.

Next on the list was a better television and sound set-up. He couldn't quite justify this in the same way, but knew all the same that it was absolutely necessary. If anyone questioned him on why sleek, glossy and, most of all, expensive technology was vital to his continued existence, he didn't need to explain. No one wasted an opportunity to claim that he wasn't the sharpest yari in the Samurai's hand. He might not have an answer to the question of why he needed a new television, but that was only because, as everyone always said, he wasn't intelligent enough to see it. There. Problem solved. He needed a new television.

Satisfied with the state of his hair, swept across one eye for no reason other than he was willing to sacrifice depth perception for the sake of fashion, he strode to the restaurant's double doors. He had arranged to meet the manager who would give him the wind to set his career flying for dinner, despite his uncertainty about her. During their introduction yesterday she had barely said anything, staring at him in a way which betrayed absolutely no attraction, sexual or otherwise.

Matt considered this to be a hideous breach of etiquette. Only the most uncultured of women would fail to be entranced by his charms.

"My name is Celeste Inpax," she had said. As formal as if she was greeting her landlord, as dry as if her tone was lost in a desert during the height of summer yet as cold as the North Pole. She hadn't appreciated his attempts to melt the ice, either. He'd tried to relax her, shown that he himself was, as he put it, cool with whatever. She told him that she would prefer not to be called Manager Dude, in a voice so polite it had to be taken as offensive.

Oh well. Maybe that meant she would be focused on furthering his career. That suited him. He could bypass personal interaction and relationships for that. They didn't mean much to him in any case. After all, when you were Matt Engarde, it was impossible to step out of the house without being presented with a street full of people ready to fulfil any needs for personal interaction and relationships to any extreme.

The restaurant was of five star quality, and each star would have been cut from gold and studded with diamonds. Matt had chosen it solely because anything worth doing was worth doing extravagantly. It had oak panelling. It had carpets the same crimson as the wine it served. It had a piano raised on a dais in one corner, allowing notes to flow like water around its patrons. They themselves were seated in a forest of potted ferns.

There were absolutely no sharp, triangular corners in red and white plastic, which was what the majority of Matt's clothes consisted of, and nor were any of the diners in their late teens with their hair swept over half of their face, but he chose to interpret this as a positive sign. Juxtaposition of opposites was supposed to be good, right? It was impossible to juxtapose anything more opposite than Matt and this restaurant.

Celeste, on the other hand, wore the subtle, dignified surroundings like a second skin. She raised a hand as soon as Matt entered, his eager smile bounding ahead of him across the room, but it took several seconds for him to locate her and take a seat beside her.

His clothes squeaked against the leather seats. Celeste refrained from commenting. She managed, Matt noticed, to do this very pointedly. It wasn't that she was not commenting, she was deliberately refraining from it. She folded her hands in her lap instead.

"Good afternoon, Mr Engarde,"

Matt rested his elbows on the back of the seat.

"Hi, dude."

"Ms Inpax will be fine, thankyou."

Piano music wandered over, tried to replace the awkward silence but quickly gave this up as a bad job and retreated to safety behind one of the ferns. Celeste coughed. Matt was glad to know he had experienced a cough which was simultaneously genteel and business-like before he died. It was a rather unique sound.

The wine list was flourished before them by a sympathetic waiter. The wine was chosen. The list was removed.

Silence reigned again.

The most annoying thing, Matt decided, was that his manager was not at all embarrassed by the lack of any conversation. She was using it to survey him, as a builder might survey the plans for a future manor house. That feature worked well there, this one needed some tuning, that one had to go completely, but, the key to all observation, it would make money. Dreams of a new motorbike and television consigned to five minutes ago, Matt pityingly labelled her as shallow.

"Do you like cats?" she said.

Matt wasn't entirely sure how he was expected to respond to this one.

"Um, sure, dude, why not? They're cool."

The change was even more dramatic than Matt's fashion sense against the backdrop of the restaurant. Celeste grinned, unfastened her ponytail and shook it until it tumbled around her shoulders, which became bare as she slipped off her jacket.

"That's all I needed to know."

From the moment she heard the motorbike snorting outside, Celeste had been prepared for the worst. She expected to be disappointed now, exhausting herself trying to find a bit more substance in this transparent sheet of a personality, paper thin and daubed with vanity as clumsily as a child's finger painting.

She was pleasantly surprised.

While her initial assessment was not far off the mark, the stupidity she perceived in Matt was stupid in a highly endearing manner. As soon as she tuned out the word 'dude' in every other sentence his company was even rather pleasant, in that it entertained her. The way he tried to look sophisticated as he drank wine he clearly didn't like, the way he mispronounced every item on the menu, the way he insisted that he was twenty-one even though she, as his manager, knew details such as the fact that he was eighteen; his charm somehow turned every action which should have rasped against her nerves like a banshee with laryngitis into melodious amusement.

It was night by the time they left the restaurant. Celeste shivered as her shoes stepped onto a pavement invisible in the dark. The echo of her footsteps knocked mournfully on down the street, aimless, before it was mauled by the sinister nothingness. An unexpectedly cold breeze worked its way right through her jacket with more persistence than an electric shock.

She looked at Matt. He returned the glance.

"Hey, uh, great to meet you properly. I'll see you at the studio tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, that's right. Eight o'clock."

"Great. Catch you later, then, dude."

Celeste watched him leave.

It had been silly of her, really. She doubted she would ever work out what made her think he would loan her his jacket, or offer her a ride home on that motorbike.

She fished her mobile phone out of her handbag instead.

"Hello? Is this Adrian Andrews? It's Celeste Inpax. Hello. I was just ringing to say I met Mr Engarde again today. I asked him about cats..."


	4. Chapter 3

"I cannot believe it! Who would do that? Who would have the audacity to do that?"

Adrian never really expected to receive her promised mentor sessions with Celeste. At first she assumed she would lose contact with the woman completely and slide back into her own dull world, where the most exciting thing that ever happened was the way one half of a pair of socks would always disappear into another arcane realm.

Then, the very next evening, her phone rang. No one ever called Adrian. Clumsy and unlucky she might be, but she was also dedicated and generally punctual, so work never had to contact her. Her family were all pursuing their own far more fascinating lives without needing her around. As for friends, she had no one. No one to rely on. No one to moan at. No one to confide in.

No one to interrupt her meals with an ill-timed telephone call.

She looked at her bowl. Instant noodles. She had tried to dress them up with chopped vegetables, which made the intestinal worms look as if they had some kind of disease. When she went to choose a dressing at random from her cupboard, she discovered that the same cupboard was empty but for one mysteriously unlabelled bottle. Every cupboard had to have one of these; it didn't matter how much money a person had, nor how much they stuck to a strict shopping list, they would always end up with one anonymous jar of something brown and sticky when the cupboards were cleaned out.

Anyway, she was never going to succeed in creating a gourmet meal, put it that way. Her curiosity overcame the effort she had put into the meagre pile of slimy white things slithering across her plate and she got up to answer the phone.

It was Celeste Inpax. They had talked for a while, or rather, Celeste had talked and Adrian had mumbled the occasional reply or prompt. The conversation felt as if it had lasted two minutes before Celeste was saying goodbye. Adrian returned the farewell, hung up and sighed. No one could bear talking to her for long.

When she looked at her digital clock, she realised that two hours had passed.

Two hours. She had held up a telephone conversation about, essentially, nothing, for two whole hours. To anyone else it would have ben a minor achievement, but when she found her noodles cold as well as slimy and walked into the kitchen table in the darkness, she was elated.

There were more telephone calls. Celeste rang at least once a week, if not once a night, to update Adrian on the latest news from the glittery world of managerial duties. She called after her first day with Matt even though not much happened. She called during Matt's first day on set, breathless with excitement, the only time Adrian had ever heard her cool brusqueness slip in the slightest. She called when nothing much had changed but, as she told Adrian, she wanted to meet up.

It was time for Adrian's first mentoring session. Of course, she knew Celeste wouldn't see it in the same dramatic lighting. To her it was a friendly chat over a coffee. To Adrian, however, it even deserved capital letters. The Mentoring Session. The Mentoring Session, in which Adrian Andrews would be taught Confidence and Efficiency, possibly in a concrete, subterranean bunker lit by a naked bulb.

What actually happened was this.

Adrian arrived at the staff area of Global Studios, the place she and Celeste had first encountered each other over a splendid meal of cat. Adrian fetched herself a drink without even seeing what it was and slid into one of the plastic chairs.

Ten minutes came and went. She brought out the book she had the foresight to bring with her, but a breeze pummelled the air around her and flicked the pages back and forth. It was useless fighting the elements, so she tucked it away again and looked at her watch. Fifteen minutes since their arranged meeting time.

Against her better judgement, Adrian found her mind wandering through the usual barbed thickets of self-criticism. Each new thought whipped at her, lashed against her skin cruelly. She was a fool. Had she really thought Celeste would bother turning up? Celeste was a busy woman, manager to someone who was bound to become a star. Why would she waste her time on an insignificant member of the floor staff? What was Adrian going to do now, sit there until the janitors arrived at the end of the day? She might as well, she had nothing else to do with her life.

It was even worse when tears tingled against her eyes. How pathetic could one woman get? No one else would hang around for half an hour wailing at the obviously very depressing image of cheery orange chairs and a flickering electric light.

She ought to go home. She had been stupid to think this would get her anywhere.

Then, invading the air space of the distant shouts in a rehearsal, a familiar voice stomped onto the scene. It marched recklessly through the air and was shortly followed by Celeste.

"I simply cannot believe it!"

The fewer contractions her speech contained, the more venomously she spat out the words, the less co ordinated the rest of her became. It was as if she had a permanent balance of composure which automatically corrected itself. With each clear, furious word another strand of hair would make a bid for freedom from her ponytail, and whenever she tried to tuck it out of the way her cheeks would flush a darker shade of scarlet.

"What's happened?" said Adrian. Celeste clenched her fists on the tabletop and gave the wall a glare it had done nothing to deserve.

"You know I told you about the public show I organised for Matt? The one to introduce him to everyone, get him a bit of recognition before the Nickel Samurai airs?"

A thousand reasons this could have gone wrong presented themselves to Adrian. She chose not to guess and instead went for a safe, simple,

"Yes?"

"Well, guess what."

Today was another one of those days. Adrian hazarded,

"Has it been cancelled?"

"I might very well choose to do that. No, it turns out that a rival studio has, entirely coincidentally, of course, decided that it absolutely must host an identical show for one of its own new actors on the same day."

"Who?"

"The Jamming Ninja, or something like that. I don't know him. Matt does. Apparently he's called Juan Corrida and he's an absolute bastard."

Adrian had never heard Celeste swear before. It didn't suit her. Nor did knocking over the salt cellar with one of her fists. She cursed again as she started to sweep up the condiment, keeping up a muttered running commentary on what she would like to do to this unexpected rival if she ever met him. A lot of the actions seemed to involve various violent deaths, a particularly creative one being choking him on the grass stalk he apparently chewed all the time as a trademark.

It took quite a while for Adrian to realise that she wasn't going to get a word in edgeways. She tried to get it in forwards, blatantly through the front door of the conversation, instead, talking over Celeste.

"Surely it could have been a coincidence?"

"Even so, it makes it incredibly difficult for us," said Celeste. Her hair hung in spirals around her face even though she was, gradually, returning to her normal manner. "We're going to have to compete with him for the media's attention. I knew I would have to start building up his image soon, but this is too fast and too short notice!"

"I'll help."

Adrian looked around. There was no one behind her. She must have said the words herself. She kept her head partially turned anyway, to avoid eye contact. What an idiot. What did she have to offer? She had been turned down for the job of manager, she couldn't contribute anything.

"You will? Really?"

Though it was true that she sounded startled, this was far outweighed by pleasure and relief in Celeste's voice. Adrian's eyes drifted back of their own accord and found that small, familiar smile. It didn't need to be a large one. It spoke just enough as it was through its utter sincerity.

"Of course. I mean, um, I'll try. I probably won't be much help."

"You started so well! No, Adrian, stick to 'of course'. That's the attitude you want. Right. Can we use your notebook?"

"Of course."

Celeste shuffled her chair around the table until they were sat elbow to elbow. The fabric of her jacket rubbed Adrian's bare arms, but the minor discomfort was soon forgotten. It was a clear day, but one bound together by stiff winds, and Adrian appreciated the warmth provided by their closeness. More importantly, it was the first time in a long while that she had been so near another human.

It sounded miserably pathetic even to herself when phrased in that way. For the past few years, she had had no one. Even as a child she hadn't had a best friend like all of the other children. This intimacy now was a luxury, the first taste of something entirely forbidden. She shivered with pleasure instead of the cold.

"I think you need to make him unique," she said, and stopped, shocked. Had those words really come out of her own mouth? They had, evidently, because Celeste tapped the page with a pen and nodded.

"Yes. You're right. We have to prove that he's got something new to offer, more than this Mr Corrida. He isn't just another clone of the Steel Samurai, he's new, he's refreshing."

"Could he have some sort of catchphrase?"

"Yes! Hang on."

Words scribbled themselves onto the page almost of their own accord. Adrian glimpsed snatches of them around Celeste's furiously zig-zagging hand. At the top was the name 'Nickel Samurai'; beneath it was a list of various adjectives. Celeste leaned back when she was done and chewed her lip thoughtfully.

"Which one's best, do you think?"

"I still like refreshing. It works well."

"It does. It makes me think of Mt Fuji, spring, a crisp and fresh day, that sort of thing."

The various images described could almost be seen in the sparkling of her eyes. Adrian would have sworn that sparkling eyes existed nowhere except particularly hackneyed prose, but, with evidence to the contrary glittering before her, she focused her attention on the paper. It fluttered briefly in a breeze.

Inspiration, as inevitabile as a truck on an icy road with the brakes cut, struck.

"Refreshing, like a spring breeze."

"Adrian."

"What?"

"That. Is. Perfect. Quick, quick, write it down before we forget it."

She obeyed. An hour later, when it became physically impossible to continue writing with their fingers numb and frozen to the pen, they had almost completed an outline of a campaign. When Celeste smiled, Adrian wasn't even surprised to find herself returning the expression.

"I'd better go and get this in motion. The show is in a fortnight from today. Are you busy then?"

"I don't think so."

"Then come along. Matt Engarde, refreshing like a spring breeze. It's going to be the most memorable debut imaginable and, best of all..."

"Best of all?"

Celeste paused a moment longer. The flickering fluorescent light wasn't as impressive as the proverbial burning fire of ambition, but it was right on cue as it flashed in her eyes.

"Best of all, Juan Corrida won't stand a chance."


End file.
